


Outlast Drabbles

by MagicFunhouseProd



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Outlast: Whistleblower
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicFunhouseProd/pseuds/MagicFunhouseProd
Summary: (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟHello all! I have returned!! Since I don't think I can keep up a chapter for chapter work for one solid story, I will doing drabbles and ramblings for various things! Various Outlast related things! Haha! This is will update regularly, maybe even twice a week, and will always be something new for each section! I hope you can stay with me through this! Comment if you'd like a certain chapter made into a fully fledged story, or if you'd like something you don't see here! I will be sure to comply!! Haha! 	＼(＾▽＾)／ Thank you very much!





	1. In the mornings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon has morning routines, even if he doesn't always follow them.

Reaching out his hand to touch the air, cool and still like a newly born pond. The effort to splay his fingers out whilst keeping his arm up seemed too tedious and he let it flop back over his chest. He could feel his heart beating, his pulse throbbing in his wrists and on the back of his neck and up the back of his head. Waylon Park closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, counting to three, then released it past his bloody, chapped lips. His tongue darting out moments later to wet them, tasting the iron of torn flesh. 

He counted to three with his own voice, but he barely recognized it as himself. Someone else was in his head, he was sure of it, filling his skull with thoughts that weren't his own. His head was full of cotton and broken glass, hiding behind his eyes and between his ears. He sat up slowly and held his head tight between his hands, eyes closed tight and lips pressed into a flat line. He took another breath through his nose and out his mouth, three seconds to hold. He lowered his hands slowly as he folded his legs under him, hands on his knees to steady his head. 

Waylon lifted his arms above his head, arching his back to pop whatever needed to pop, stretching his arms and wrists. He extends his legs off the side of the bed and plants his feet- pardon. His foot on the cool floor. He wiggles his toes and grabs his cane, sighing. He lifted himself up and wobbled for a moment before frowning, glancing around the room quickly. 

"Damn thing..." He muttered, making his way, slowly but surely, to the desk. Is this where he set his prosthetic? Waylon barely remembered. He glanced over to the bed with a hum. He remembered taking his medicine and taking a hop before flopping onto his bed, face first. Is that how the night went or did he dream that part? His few minutes before slumber were always a haze. Warm tea was strong, but pills were stronger. 

He pulled out the chair of the desk and sat down, rubbing his face again tiredly. The cobwebs of sleep still clung inside of his head, begging for more sleep. Another hour sounded nice, actually. 

Waylon stared at his bed before standing up and shuffling over, happily curling back into the warmth of his many sheets and thick quilts. He smiled softly and curled back up against his pillow, letting his eyes drift close. 

One more hour wouldn't hurt.


	2. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Think of this as a part 2 somewhat to He Waits.

Waylon’s laughter sounds like how happiness sounds. It’s surprising and loud, it’s red faced and teary eyed and belly hurting. It’s happy. Blake is surely surprised by the loud burst of laughter from the short man. But it makes him happy. It makes him smile. It makes him laugh with him. 

Blake likes the feeling of letting go, even if he doesn’t realize it. He likes the relaxing nature of it all. The setting sun making green bottles turn with a yellow hue in it’s golden light, beer sloshing around at the bottom. Sitting on the conjoint patio between their apartments, relaxing peacefully in the warm summer evening. 

Waylon laughs again at something stupid Blake said, a joke that wasn’t even that funny. It’s easy to make the other man laugh, Blake notes with a cheeky smile, it’s something that Blake forgets he can do; cause others to feel joy. 

Yes, he’s forgotten jokes and stories that would make their whole film crew wheeze until they were purple in the face and beating their fists on the tabletops. But here, with this man, anything could be funny. Blake enjoys that.


End file.
